Plaid and Stripes
by BookWormProud97
Summary: What happens when the stones of Craigh na dun strike again, but this time from the 21st century? Claire, Jamie, and the rest of clan Mackenzie join together to piece together the mystery that comes in the form of a "Patriot", and slowly realize that she may be the key to their victory against the crown.
1. Chapter 1

I came to in the circle of rocks, cool grass against my back and the sun to my face. A chilling breeze blew by as I sat up, seeming to freeze my bones like a gust from the tundra. My head was pounding, from what I was not sure; the last thing I remembered was touching the rock, screams, and then darkness. I stood up, holding my sweater clad arms close, trying to keep the wind from stealing the little body heat I had left. Looking around, I saw the rocks just as they had been before, if not a little less covered in moss and lichen. And yet, as I turned around, examining my surroundings, something felt wrong, oh so wrong, and yet I couldn't pinpoint what it was that was eating at me. With the uncanny feeling that I would find no help among these stones, I began to walk. I vaguely remembered that the sun set in the west, and tried to seek it out to orient myself. Yet with my luck, I realized that it was high noon, the shining orb was straight overhead and I had no clue where it was going, and I certainly wasn't going to wait around by the rocks to see. With that decided I began my little journey, stumbling down the green hills and rocky outcrops. An expanse of green marsh, blue mountains, and a lush forests rose up in front of me, unfamiliar and yet so peaceful. I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath of fresh, unadulterated air; wherever I was, I didn't mind being lost as much as I thought I would.

I would find out in moments that I had spoken much too soon.

Once I had clumsily traversed the rocky hillside beneath the stone circle, I stopped at the edge of the forest, spotted a babbling creek and decided that if I was going to keep walking to find help, I would need to stay hydrated. Slowly I picked my way to the waters edge, taking care to avoid the patches of glistening mud. Once on the flat stones of the water's edge, I got down and dipped my hands into the crystal liquid, slightly jerking at the freezing water, and hurried to gulp down a few sizable mouthfuls. With the last gulp I mopped up my dripping chin with the sleeve of my sweater, scratching my face on a bramble that had snuck its way onto the knit fabric. Knowing that I must move on before dark, I stood up and turned around, straight into a hard yet warm chest clad in red.

This wasn't any red though, it was red decorated with brass buttons, with a trim of white and black and the tassels of a military official. In absolute confusion I jerked back, looking up into the pale, pinched face of a tri-corn wearing man. His face was very plain, smeared with what looked like dirt, on his forehead like he wiped it there in a moment of stress. His eyes were small and piggish, a shade of brown, the exact same as the mud I had so carefully tried to avoid.

"And what may I ask is a-" at this his eyes, dropped to my outfit, which consisted of jeans, brown laced up boots, and a black and white knit sweater, "-interestingly dressed woman doing wandering out on her own?" He finished in a clipped tone, even more apparent with his English accent. My heart soared with the possibility of finding my way home, and yet his nationality and outfit tugged at my attention, warning me that this wasn't what it seemed.

"I got lost-" I pointed towards the hill with the stone circle behind me "-and woke up there, if you could help me find my way home that would be wonderful."

Alarm bells rang in my head as I spoke, noticing that once the first few words had left my lips, the man had seemed to stop listening altogether, his mouth twitched into a frown and his brow pulled down in a most hostile expression.

"How the hell did you get here?! You're a bloody spy! Helping the cause you are!" As he yelled he grasped my arm in a grip of steel and yanked me into the woods.

"What?! I promise I don't know what you're talking about! Please!" I fought back, scratching and clawing, kicking and punching. But with a quick whistle into the trees, another red coat came running out, initially taken aback by the situation until a violent jerk from my captors head ordered him to grasp my other arm and follow along. Try in vain I did to escape, but my strength was no match for the combined efforts of the two men, and I was afraid that if I fought too hard they would knock me out, I wanted to be conscious for this, it was too important to leave to chance. After a short scramble through bushes of thistle and thorns, the soldiers finally came out in to a clearing, filled with three tents and a roaring fire. Four other men sat by the fire, or milled around the camp, but immediately their eyes were drawn to my fighting form, a look of confusion and curiosity decorating their brows.

"Sir, what is-" began one as my original captor handed my arm off to another man, who grasped it an iron grip.

"I seem to have found a traitor and a spy lurking in the woods, and I will see to it that this threat to the crown is taken care of appropriately!"

"Please!" I screamed, "I'm lost! All I want to do is find my way home!" and yet, just like the other man, the minute the words left my mouth, the men's faces closed off to me. One turned to his tent, rummaged around for a bit and came back with a strip of leather that I realized with horror was a whip.

The man with the piggish eyes, came up behind me and grasped my sweater, the sound of grating metal rang through the forest and in a flash my sweater hung around my body, cut in half with a knife, my back now exposed. The cold air tore at my flesh, stinging like needles, at least until the first cut. With a horrified shock, I felt the tip of the man's knife slice neatly down my back, releasing a flood of warmth to course down my skin.

"What's wrong girlie? Can't handle the punishment fit for the crime?" Another slow, agonizing slice. I was about to plead again when I realized that these men would never listen, and if they did it was to get pleasure from my screams and pain. I figured that if they were going to kill me, I certainly wasn't going to give them what they wanted before they did it.

Another slice.

"Thirteen cuts for the colonies missy" pig eyes said with a laugh. On and on this went, he and his cohorts taunting, me hanging on, teeth clenched, sweating with the effort not to scream. Finally he stepped back and I heard the knife slid back into his sheath. My shoulders dropped in relief.

"Ohh no, you're not getting off that easy, traitors will suffer at my hand, its a personal motto of sorts." he said with a chuckle, and then in a second I knew I was a goner. I understood with the first crack of the whip why he had cut me first. A whipping is a horrible endeavor, but a whipping on open wounds is an experience so unbearable that when the first crack came down, I hoped I would die right then and there; struck down by some other worldly force, or simply just die of blood loss... anything to stop the pain. Throughout the next thirteen lashes, I held my tongue, and fought to stay conscious, determined to show these men that I was made of tougher stuff before they killed me.

I never had to though, on number thirteen, there was a call from an owl somewhere in the woods, which instead of being answered by another owl was answered by the battle cries of a band of scraggly warriors, brandishing broadswords and wooden shields. Clad in kilts. I closed my eyes at this sight as everything clicked into place, I was clearly no longer in my own time, I had no clue how or why but this was no longer the 21st century.

With a jerk, my captors dropped my arms to join the fray and I held my tattered sweater around my front, sinking to the ground and succumbing to the waves of pain, made fresh with every gust of wind that hit my back. I held myself tightly, afraid that if I didn't I would simply fall apart into oblivion. In my ears, the sounds of battle raged on around me, when I gained enough strength to lift my head, I looked around and saw that the ground was covered in red, from the coats and blood of my assailants. Standing over them was a group of rag-tag warriors, battle worn, and covered in dirt and grim. I blinked calmly as one of them came over and squatted down in front of me,

"Dinna worry lassie, we are here to take ye to a safe place, no more English, I promise ye." He held out a hand at this and I nodded and reached to grasp it. The torn bits of my back pulled painfully, and yet I was so far gone with the sensation that I was in a state of tranquility and calmness. What was the worst that could happen to me now?

With help from the strange Scottish warriors, I was loaded up behind a kind, older man on his horse. Told to hold on and that a safe haven was but a few miles away. Together, the group and I trudged through the night, with me fading in and out of consciousness and them conversing in low streams of Gaelic, so quietly that at times I couldn't distinguish it from the sounds of the forest around us.

Finally, when I felt as if I could take no more of the jarring movements of the horse, my partner announced that were had arrived at the castle, Castle Leoch, he called it. I felt the horses slow down as we entered the courtyard, but by then my eyes has rolled back into my head.

"She's goin' down! Someone ge' her!" I heard my rider yell, I wondered lazily who he was talking about before I felt the horse turning beneath me and realized that I was the one going over. With a jarring thud, I landed in the hard, warm arms of someone, a man. His hands grasped me and slid over the bloody expanse that was my back. I gasped in pain, and struggled to stay conscious through the pain,

"What the-" said the voice holding me, his voice was like the group that rescued me, deep and filled with a Scottish lilt. Gingerly he hoisted me up, I could hear the men around me yelling advice and recounting the story,

"Take her ta Mistress Beauchamp, Jamie!"

"I swear tha' lassie is strong, dinna cry out once!"

I was carried over a shoulder, to prevent any contact to the mangled flesh that was my back. Each step reverted through me painfully, and my head felt light, like it would float away at any second. Finally, the movement stopped and I was set down on a cold, stone slab, a table I presumed. My head lolled forward and two hands braced themselves on my shoulders to hold me up. All around me was the buzz of conversation, alive with excitement and news. Over the din of Scottish brogue, was the commanding tone of an English woman,

"Alright, alright, Rupurt and Angus hold onto the girl's arms, tightly please, this will either wake her up or knock her out." Immediately two sets of arms grasped me tightly and the hands on my shoulders tightened. And then the pain somehow doubled, tripled, quadrupled into endless waves of pure agony.

This time I screamed, my eyes shot open and I arched my back, whatever that woman had just poured down my back felt like fire, sizzling my skin straight off the bone. I was awake now.

"Mistress Beauchamp!" Exclaimed a voice.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Unless you wanted her wound to fester, that was necessary!"

I looked around in fear, the woman's term did not at all fit with this time period, but then another wave of pain came as the woman doused me again in alcohol. Not caring, I leaned my head forward on the chest in front of me, too wrapped up in the pain to care. Before I knew it I felt the tug of stitches,

"Why are ye stitchin' a flogging?" asked the chest I was leaning against,

"Because it wasn't just a flogging Jamie, this girl was cut before she was flogged." As this Mistress Beauchamp finished her sentence, the room led out an audible gasp and was silent. Then a voice spoke up hesitantly,

"What on Earth di' the lassie do ta' ge' somethin' like tha'?" The room's occupants shuffled nervously as they considered my situation. In order to dispel any accusations of spying, and also because I felt that I owed these people, I used the very last of my strength and raised my head to the crowd surrounding me.

"I'd say it was because of my accent."

The room fell silent, and then at last, Mistress Beauchamp, with a bloody needle still in her hand came into my field of vision and said,

"You're a Patriot." I nodded silently, and a voice in the back let out a nervous laugh,

"Aye, I see now, theres no much tha' a Sassenach hates more than a Scot, cept' a Patriot tha' is."


	2. Chapter 2

After I had revealed my nationality to the dimly lit room full of Scotsman, my head lolled back to lay on the chest from which I had lifted it. Vaguely I heard the broken sentences of my saviors echo around me, but my mind was so far gone with exhaustion by then that I let the words flow over me, making no attempt to hear what they were saying. Instead, I forced myself to time my breathing to the body in front of mine, it gave me a distraction from the dull pain of the pulling needle at my back.

Where was I? That question had been fighting its way to the forefront of my mind all night, and now with nothing else to think about, it had reared its ugly head again. With the common sense that most human beings are born with, I had been able to deduce that I was most likely no longer in the 21st century. From there I began to rack my brains, looking for any indicators of the time period; when did the British stop wearing redcoats? Why didn't I ever pay attention in history class? All very important and seemingly life or death questions at the moment.

There was also another, larger question to be answered. How? How on earth did I change times? One moment I was wandering around the massive stones on the hill and the next I was waking up in who-knows-when.

Being an avid reader, my mind instantly jumped to magic; in the stories, the characters are always swept up in amazing adventures, usually with the help of some otherworldly influence. As a reader of these breathtaking stories I was always jealous of their worlds, who when compared to the boring hum-drum of my world, were exciting and a place where anything was possible. I regret to say, that this was precisely the fact that convinced me to stay as long as I could in this strange world, my father would have laughed at my romantic notions of such a dangerous situation; and yet I think that if I asked these people to take me back to the rocks and from there back home, I would never forgive myself for passing up my own storybook adventure.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't plan on fighting to stay in this hostile time period, I am merely planning on keeping some of my information secret; not mentioning how I came to be in this land, and not asking to me taken home. I will instead let fate do as it will with my life, if it wants to take me along with these natives, then I will follow it wholeheartedly. If it wants to take me home, then I will follow, if not with a heavy heart at a missed opportunity.

Throughout all of this deep, meaningful thinking, I was completely unaware that the tugging at my back had ceased, along with the chatter. Now there were only two voices, the deep Scottish brogue of my headrest and the higher pitched English accent of the strange woman at my back. Their voices mumbled together quietly, trying not to wake me, whom they thought was asleep. I felt a gentle, wet dabbing at my back as they spoke, their whispers twined together, every now and then rising with a laugh or snort. Without meaning to, I yawned, drawing their attention back to me and ending their conversation abruptly. I blushed slightly, under my ratted hair, at the awkward situation of being caught awake.

Slowly, like he was handling a small, hurt bird and not a human, the man in front of me lifted my upper body off of his chest, I wrapped my arms tighter around my middle to keep up my torn sweater, which dangled in damp woolly curtains down my sides, together. I looked up with a stiff neck into deep blue eyes, endless and yet confusingly light. The fire from the torches and candles in the room sparkled off of them, seeming to make them dance in the darkness. His hair was red, just like I imagine a Scottish man's would be, and his face was lightly freckled. He had a strong jawline that could cut steel and a long, straight nose. His neck looked strong too; altogether, I can't say I was disappointed to have been leaning on his chest this whole time.

Of course, because of the proximity between us, his looks, and the fact that I was barely keeping my shirt up, I blushed deeply. Looking down between us, I realized that was also awkward, blushed again and looked behind myself instead, to try and inspect the damage.

The English woman behind me wiped her hands and came to stand in front of me with the man; she was thin, with big hips and wildly dark hair, which was tied back into a hastily done bun. He face was smeared with my blood and her hands tinged pink. I looked into her warm, almost motherly eyes and swallowed nervously.

"Thank you" I whispered. Her eyes crinkled in the corners as a smile stretched across her face,

"Anytime, but let this be the last, shall we?" She bared her teeth in a smile, surprisingly white for a time period that I was pretty sure, had not been introduced to the toothbrush yet. Suspicions aside, I smiled back wearily. The man who had been in front of me had slowly begun to take his leave, with a final head nod to the woman and I, he turned on his heel and disappeared up the stone stairs, his shadow flickering across the wall.

With a creak, the woman sat on the table next to me, her hands knotted in her lap.

"I realize that you've had a trying day" she began, "but I just want you to know that I was in a similar situation once and if you'd like to talk about it sometime, I'm all ears."

Her offer rang through my head, little warning bells going off at the emphasis she put on the phrase, 'similar situation'. "Could she be from the 21st century too?" I thought wildly.

The woman reached for my hand, "You can call me Claire by the way." Her eyes crinkled again, as she said this, then with a surprisingly strong tug, she pulled me up and began to help me to the cot in the corner. Without a word, she pulled off my muddy boots, and helped me on to my stomach, tucking blankets around my waist to prevent my rolling. When she was finally content with my sleeping position, she stood up blew out the nearest candle, the blue smoke swirled up in a haunting whirl as she swept by. I watched silently as Claire gathered up a large book from the table and sat herself down in front of the fire to read. I scanned the small, dungeon like room for her bed, then with a shock I realized that was exactly what I was laying on. This small thought embraced my body like a warm blanket, comforting and secure; I was too exhausted to voice to her my appreciation and thankfulness at her small kindness, and instead settled for a simple example of the trust I felt for her as I teetered on the brink of sleep,

"My name is Laine."


	3. Chapter 3

I awoke to the crackling of a fire, the smokey smell reminded me of family camp-outs and summer bonfires. Of toasting marshmallows and quiet nights, of freezing toes and sweaty backs sticking to the nylon of sleeping bags. The memories of which this simple aroma evoked in my mind, had not yet happened. _I_ had not yet happened, I wasn't even sure if I _would _happen. My situation was so otherworldly, so story-like, that I still was not positive that this was not just one big dream; maybe I had stayed up late reading again and I was subconsciously implanting myself into the story? And yet another side of me pleaded with the universe that I not be dreaming, this whole adventure that I had stumbled upon seemed to be an absolute affirmation of hope. For years, I had read book after book, learning about far off lands and magic, of mysterious creatures and of heroes and heroines battling for reasons that were courageous and selfless. To finish those books and come back to reality was always a horrible endeavor, the real world was nothing like what I had read. Fights were petty and murderous, people were cruel for no reason and others were living miserably with no one to help them. The world had been mapped from corner to corner, the seas had been charted and the mountains and jungles explored. There was no mystery, no wonder, and no magic.

And yet, I had somehow stumbled upon the potential for a great story, maybe not with magic and mythical creatures; but the mystery, suspense and wonder seemed to be guaranteed. So tell me how I could pass up something that could potentially prove to me that the world wasn't as flat as it seemed?

I couldn't.

With a soft groan, I pushed myself up, slowly so as to not stretch and pull at the tightness that was my back. It burned dully, but where it lacked in pain, it made up in the urge to scratch. It felt like a horrible sunburn, after the burn feeling had gone and the horrible itching obsession had taken it's place. My body spasmed as the urges to scratch rocked through my body. My hands clenched each thigh, the nails digging into the soft flesh painfully. I bit my lip as another wave came over me; with jerky movements, I flexed my back, rejoicing when the thin fabric of my nightgown rubbed over my wound.

"No!" came an adamant voice from the corner, making me jump.

"Stop it! You'll only open the injury back up, just hold on one moment, I might have a salve-..." Claire, rummaged through various cabinets on the opposite wall, her skirts swishing around her ankles heavily. She squinted and mumbled to herself, pulling out jars of all sizes and replacing them with little grunts of annoyance.

"Ah! Here we are!" She said with a tap of her foot, "Come on over and have a seat by the fire, you can thaw out from the chilly night while I apply it." She gestured to her chair by the fire as she said this. I got up slowly and held my nightgown around myself, making my way slowly to the chair, my back itching me all the while. The piece of furniture was old looking, a dark wood with even darker stains on the backrest, left there by the amount of hands that had held the wood. The chair was well-worm and smooth, cool to the touch. I settled my self in it backward, my back to Claire and my front facing away from the fire, towards her stone table, which I had sat upon the night before.

"Do you mind if I pull up your shift?"

"My wha-" I realized quickly that she meant the nightgown, "Yes, of course." I said. Claire took the garment and pulled it over my shoulders, so that I was wearing it like a scarf, but with my hands still through the sleeves to preserve modesty. Very carefully she began to spread the salve along the mangled bits of my back, her hands were cold, which provided a heavenly contrast to the itches that burned along my back. My head slipped down to rest on the back of the chair, arms hugging the backrest to my chest. My eyes slipped closed as I relaxed into the English woman's touch.

With a slight feeling of remorse, I realized that I was still wearing my jeans, as dirty and ripped as they were, I was hesitant to get rid of them. Yet I knew that eventually I would have to dress like the others, and most likely explain to them what "jeans" were and why a woman would wear pants. Maybe though, I could get away with washing the trousers and hiding them away, it seemed an awful waste to discard such fabric in the era that I was in. Maybe I could even sell them to a seamstress or taylor for some extra cash. "_Coin"_, I corrected myself. "_cash"_ wasn't a term here.

I let one of my hands fall to my bent knee, to feel the denim rough beneath my fingers. Even though I had decided to stay and stick out the adventure, the feel of the woven fabric beneath my fingers brought a wave of homesickness to the forefront of my mind, weighing down the weightlessness of my thoughts like a cement block.

Luckily before those thoughts pulled me too deep, they were interrupted by footsteps coming down the stone staircase to my left. With a small movement, I turned my head and looked over my shoulder, just in time to see my headrest from last night come down the stairs with a basket in his hand.

The night before, I had noticed his eyes and face, seeing as those things were eye level at the time. Today though, the first thing that struck me was his height, and that's saying something, naturally I'm the tall one at 5'10. He was much taller though, had to have been at least 6'3, maybe even taller. When he walked into the room, he had a commanding effect, with the height, looks, and muscled body; and yet instead of acting the way he looked, he froze on the bottom step when he saw Claire and I. His cheeks flamed slightly with a pink flush as he turned around to face away from us with a whirl, his kilt whipping around his knees with a whoosh.

"I apologize lassies, I dinna ken ye were indecent." his voice was deep and had that pinched tone of someone that was embarrassed. I turned around to look back at Claire, she met my confused stare and with a dramatic sigh, rolled her eyes, which caused me to stifle a nervous laugh into my arm.

"Honestly Jamie, you are not going to ruin the girl's reputation by looking at her wound, turn around and tell me why you have come down."

Jamie turned around slowly, but made sure to keep his eyes averted from my "indecent" back; once he was facing me again I noticed with slight curiosity that his arm was bandaged up in a grimy sling, obviously his height and my pain had distracted me from this little fact.

"Mrs. Fitz tol' me ta' bring down a breakfast for the both of ye'." he said as he carefully placed the basket on the stone slab table in front of me. The basket seemed to be intricately crafted out of tiny little black twigs, my fingers twinged at the thought of the cramps that must have been received from working with a material so small.

From my vantage point, I could not discern what was in the basket, but whatever it was beckoned to my starving stomach like a beacon. Time traveling, being cut and whipped and then stitched up by a stranger, among strangers seemed to have worked up quite an appetite for me. The steam rising up from the nest of woven twigs curled as it dissipated into the air, carrying with it the scent of freshly baked bread. Jamie must have noticed my wistfully, starving expression because he said,

"Och lassie, if ye' want some food, ye' just got ta' ask!" and then reached into the basket to hand me a smoking hot piece of the most delicious looking bread I had ever seen. Sadly, I could not admire the workmanship because my one-track-mind devoured the morsel in seconds, scorching my tongue and throat in the process. With a smothered cough into my shoulder, I looked over at Jamie and said,

"You might just want to move the basket over towards me." his mouth twitch up in a half grin as he relented, sliding the bread basket in front of me.

Five pieces later as I gulped down a cup of water Claire had fetched for me, I heard Jamie say quietly behind me,

"Sassenach, d'you ye' mind helpin' me outta' this bandage, its chaffin' me awful bad."


	4. Chapter 4

On day three of my bed-ridden confinement, I was awoken from a fitful slumber, not by the traditional "good morning" that one expects, but by a stern faced English woman staring straight into my eyes. I jumped back in fear and was rewarded with the stinging pull of my scabbed-over back,

"What the-" I shrieked, breathless. My last memory before waking had been of a set of cold hands, trailing up my two arms, as if searching for something.

"What the heck are you doing?!" I said again, this time with more vigor, as I grasped the woven, moth-eaten blanket to my chest. Claire, seemingly surprised at being caught doing who-knows-what, backed away and sat herself down in the chair by the fire.

"I- I was searching for a scar." She said, almost unwillingly.

"A scar?" I repeated, "Why you were searching for a scar?" I said, my mind was spinning with hypotheticals as to what a scar had to do with this, but I was coming up blank.

"I wanted to see if you had been vaccinated." She said, her chest puffed up in defense. As she brought her jaw up defiantly, mine dropped like a bag of rocks.

"Vaccination?" I squeaked, the air having been thoroughly stolen from my lungs, hearing my tone and genuine surprise, Claire shot out of her chair, finger pointing accusingly,

"Ah! You've heard the word before!" She yelled excitedly, "What time are you from?" she asked, almost as breathless as myself, while bringing her chair closer to mine and grasping my chilled and shaking hand between her own. I swallowed loudly and took a deep breath, this was all happening too fast, I had counted on at least a few more days before my curious tendencies raised suspicion.

"Vaccination? Like for Polio?" I asked, my mind spinning with explanations for what a vaccine had to do with this.

"Polio?" she asked, her eyes widening in wonder, "they discovered a vaccine finally?"

"_Finally? _It was only discovered some fifty years ago" I thought to myself in amazement. Claire gasped and absentmindedly clutched my hand to her chest, "Why- that must- oh how unfortunate!" she cried, "Roosevelt was so close, a few more months and they could have administered it!" Her eyes had taken on a far away quality, like she was seeing something beyond the room and I. With a small start, she turned and took in my thoroughly confused expression,

"Why, Franklin Roosevelt, the American president with polio, you've heard of him haven't you?" I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and nodded my head,

"I've heard of him, well, I've read about him, in the history books at least." Her brow dropped as her brain processed my words,

"Histo-, oh my dear lord," she said in awe and if I wasn't mistaken, a bit of horror; "what year was the vaccine created?" Her hands were white against my flushed skin, the bones and veins seemed to almost protrude from the skin as she grasped with all her might.

I racked my brain, trying to recall the date from history class, "1952" I said.

"So- so your from-?" her voice broke off as she asked what was becoming a question I'd never thought I'd be asked,

"No" I said in a hushed tone, "No, I'm not from the 1950s, I'm from-" I was losing my nerve rapidly, how was I supposed to tell this woman, this nice if not a little eccentric woman that her time had ended? That everything she knew, from people, to places were most likely gone? Family and friends dead, or otherwise in states of varying decay; the houses and establishments she knew, probably in similar conditions. How was I supposed to tell this woman that in my time, she was, for all intents and purposes, dead? And yet, here she was in front of me, anything but dead; she was alive, full of blood and covered in flesh, made out of bones, just like me. Her eyes alert and urgent, boring into mine like drills, urging me to tell her what I knew, to tell her the truth.

"I'm from 2015" I said, so silent that she had to lean in to catch the words as they tumbled from my mouth, but that was all it took. Her eyes glazed over, no longer looking at me, but through me. Trying to piece together the horrifyingly impossible truth that had been laid before her.

I tried to imagine how she was feeling and blanched, in just the blink of an eye she was expected to comprehend the expanse of fifty plus years. Years that a normal human being would have time to adjust to; Claire was forced to imagine it all in seconds. To jump a wide chasm filled with advancements and inventions, with wars and historical events, all without knowing what lay on the other side. And yet it was a jump she would have to make alone, I already knew what lay on the other side, and in the middle, even on the side that she started on; I could not, would not have been able to relate to her situation in the slightest. The difference between jumping forward and jumping backwards in time is that in the past, you have the upper hand.

I was appalled to see that her eyes were rapidly filling with water as she sat before me, not spilling over but coming dangerously close to it. I looked around in vain, searching for a tissue, or better yet some backup; when it came to feelings, I was helpless to comfort people. Usually too uncomfortable at their excess of emotion to force myself to stick around, choosing to leave that job for someone more adept. Down here, there was no one but her and I, and as her chin began to wobble, I took a deep breath, scooted closer, and took her hand. It was cold and fragile looking in mine, long fingered like an artist, her nails were lightly caked with dirt making me think that she tended her medicinal plants as well as administering them.

"There- there" I said awkwardly, lifting my hand up to pat her back and then abandoning that route and settling for reassuring hand squeezes.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." she said shortly, she sniffed once, dragging her hand across her face and sat up straight. "I'm fine, I just have- had a husband during my time, and now-" I could see that she was steeling herself internally to come to terms with the inevitable truth, "and now he's dead, in your time he is at least." her voice broke with a strangled laugh, "here he hasn't even been born!"

I didn't know what to say to that, and looked down at my hands, searching my mind for something to add. With a mental sigh at my atrocious social skills I chose the first thing that came to my mind,

"Do you know whats for breakfast?" Her eyes momentarily popped wide in surprise, and I was granted with a small smile.

"I'm sure Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons will be happy to get you whatever you want." She looked at my expression and added, "She's the matriarch of this establishment, head of staff and like a mother to all the men here." Her eyes crinkled as she described the woman, and I found myself smiling along, imagining a bustling old woman, clucking like a hen to her chicks as she whooped the whole household into shape. As I was thinking, another request came to my mind, this one a bit more challenging to ask;

"Would I- perhaps, be able to go get the breakfast myself?" I said it timidly, hoping to convey that I had no ulterior motive. All I wanted was to get out of this damp cave, breath fresh air, stretch my aching muscles, and with luck, see some sunlight. I was beginning to feel like a wilting plant, miserable without my H2O and vitamin D.

Her eyes narrowed at my request, sizing me up and debating whether I posed a serious threat to anybody. Which I did not, at least not in my current condition, seeing as I was pretty much being held together with rudimentary stitches. Coming to the same conclusion that I did, her facial muscles relaxed and she smiled,

"Of course, but let's get you looking a bit more human first hm?"

Half an hour later I was freshly, and when it came to my back, gently scrubbed and smelling of lavender. My hair was washed and toweled dry, or should I say 'wooled' dried, seeing as towels were yet another commodity that hadn't been invented. My shift had been exchanged for a loose dress, sans corset; my back was bandaged underneath. It was made out of a warm, and extremely scratchy bit of dark blue fabric; which I was sad to say made me look even paler than I already was and was also regrettably about an inch too short. To top off the whole look, I squeezed into a pair of her shoes, which were surprisingly not as ugly as I thought they would be. Almost resembling a sturdier version of ballet slippers, but in brown instead of pink; and extremely comfortable once the rigid leather warmed to my feet.

With my appearance meeting Claire's standards, we finally began the grueling journey up the stairs to main level, each step pulled on my healing stitches like a puppet string, tempting me to abandon the effort and go back down. Claire gracefully stayed by my side, out of kindness and I suspected a small amount of pity; her strong, sure hands supported my elbow as I worked my way up, taking small breaks to catch my breath as the pain faded each time.

After a few minutes of small talk and awkward conversation to fill the silence, we made it to the top, I paused to look back at my feat and was disappointed to see that my 'Everest' was only ten steps long. With a small huff I followed after Claire who had gone ahead, and was waiting patiently for me to come along. Walking straight was much easier then elevated and I hurried along with ease, pausing ever so often to look into the rooms on either side, constructing my mental map of Castle Leoch as I went.

At the end of the corridor, and to the right were the kitchens, the walls were made of stone and the room was not at all as large as I thought it'd be, it also didn't help that it was full of women, shuffling about as they prepared the meals for the day. A great window sat opposite of me and a massive fireplace was to my left, filled with the crackling flames of a roaring fire. Dried herbs and spices hung from the smoke-darkened rafters above, giving off a multitude of scents and tempting my nose to sneeze with every breath. In the middle of the room was a large and especially long table, sturdily made of wood and buried beneath dishes and ingredients of all sorts, here a bunch of carrots, there a bloodied mess that I thought had once been a chicken. The women worked in organized chaos, flitting around each other with no pattern and yet narrowly missing full on collisions like dancers in a play.

I looked around in awe. From the corner of my eye I watched as Claire drifted off and said a few words to a plump, older woman; dressed in a faded white and brown dress and wrapped in a smudged apron. I turned to look as Claire brought the woman to me, her wrinkled face creased into a kind smile as she approached.

"As I was saying Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons, this is my patient, Laine." Claire said as she beckoned to me with her hands, I smiled politely, not sure if I should say something.

"Aye! So this is the wee bonny lassie I saw fallin' off tha' horse a few nights past!" she chirped happily, her cheeks swelling like too red apples as she grinned up at me, "Aw, but the lassies no' so wee ye ken, almost as tall as some o' the men 'round here you are!" She giggled loudly and jovially tucked my hand beneath her elbow, bustling me towards the large wooden table in the process, with Claire following behind.

"Bein' downstairs so long does naught but a bad thing to yer' appetite eh?" she squinted up at me as I nodded in agreement, "Weel lets see if there's no something we can do about that!" With a little shove to a woman standing in her way, Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons grabbed a small basket and made her way, with Claire and I following at her heels, around the table. Picking up little bits of food as she went, a loaf of bread here, some cheese there, until the basket was almost bursting. With a satisfied "humph", she then handed the package over to me, smiling,

"Aye lassie, go now and fill yer' stomach, I've got washin' to do, but if ye' ever need anythin' be naught afraid te' ask" and with a little pat of my cheek she had hurried away, disappearing once more within the swarm of women. I looked after her, slightly dazed at the speed that Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons conducted herself, and realizing that in what had felt like a two person conversation, I had said not a word, letting her do all the talking. With a shake to clear my head, I turned around looking for Claire. She was waiting quietly by the far corner of the table, grasping a bundle of herbs that she must have gathered while I was otherwise distracted. Seeing that I had been released from my captor, she came over and relinquished me from the heavy basket of food.

"How would you like to eat outside today?" she asked, while also scrutinizing my body as she decided if I could handle the exertion at all.

"I would love to" I said quickly, infusing my voice with strength that I did not feel, "Got anywhere in mind?" I asked.

"What do you think about the stables?" She said, with a gleam in her eye.


	5. Chapter 5

Breakfast at the stables soon became a regular outing for Claire and I, even extending into lunch on days that I felt capable of more than one trip up the stairs. Dinners were usually a quite affair, held in the physicians ward that was beginning to become my new home, on occasion were were joined by a cheerful Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons, or if we were lucky, Jamie. Or should I say, if Claire was lucky.

It was common knowledge to the castle that she was a widow, married before her husband "passed away"; but what wasn't common knowledge was that her heart was beginning to love another. I saw it, Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons saw it, and as I had seen in their gossiping huddles, some of the other ladies at the castle had noticed as well. And yet, Claire and Jamie were perfectly and beautifully ignorant of their predicament, both of them never picking up on the little affectionate signs given by the other. They were like two deer, easily frightened and quick to run away if confronted. But if you were quiet enough, and looked closely, you could see when they began to forget that they were not alone, becoming swept up in the others eyes and mannerisms, and as if by magic or some twist in the Earth's gravity, the world began to only turn around them.

I had been lucky enough to witness some of these moments, always taking care to stay quiet and not break the spell. It was like witnessing something out of a book; as if Shakespeare himself was sitting before me, creating a love story equal to that of Romeo and Juliet, that would go down in history. The way their eyes met over a basket of food, how her hands gently caressed his shoulder as she examined a previously dislocated joint, how he looked down at her when they stood up to leave; their mundane actions spoke of such passion and longing, of such unguarded tenderness and need. Sometimes it was just too private, to deep, and I would turn away, busying myself with aimless actions and knowing that the unspoken words that they exchanged were meant only for the two of them.

It was a beautiful thing to witness, the growing and nurturing of that little sprout of love, one that I believed would soon blossom into a permanent being if it continued on; but sometimes it was a bittersweet sight, making me long for an experience of the same. Being a great reader of books, choosing to live on the inside of pages rather in the outside world, I had read about loves like theirs. Loves that spanned location and time, that burnt quickly in a torrent of fire or slowly consumed the soul in a steady smolder. I had always wished for a love like that, waiting for that perfect somebody to awaken that creature inside of me. I believe that all humans are naturally social beings, but are deeply independent; at least until that special somebody turns the key, flips the switch and changes you. A change that runs deeper than blood, in the ideas of living, waking you up to see that no matter how independent you may be, you'll never be alone again. Its a special kind of union, love, one that makes solitary living impossible and yet takes none of your freedom away.

This was what Jamie and Claire had, because even if they were on other sides of the castle, he in his stables and she in her ward. One look could tell you that they weren't alone, for both were thinking of the other, and the thoughts were never far from their mind, gracing their faces with hidden smiles when ever they appeared.

With this knowledge under my belt, I was determined to see their union, to see their love professed before I had to return to my own time. If anything, I wanted to be able to go back to the 21st century, do some heavy research and see their family tree, to be able to point to it and say, "that was a beautiful love story, one that I was lucky to have witnessed.". I wanted to be able to take some of that magic home with me.

Two weeks after my arrival at Castle Leoch, I was almost fully recovered. With the help of Claire's constant care and salve administrations, my back had the look of baby skin, freshly pink and brand new along the lines of would become sizable scars.

On the night of my fifteenth day in the year 1743, Claire declared me fit to attend the clan gathering that had begun the night before. That morning the last of the Clan Mackenzie had made their way to the castle doors, setting up camp in the surrounding woods and fields. Tonight would be a type of swearing in, as Claire described it, a ceremony at dinner in which all Clan Mackenzie members swear fealty to their laird, a man by the name of Colum Mackenzie, who was apparently the owner of Castle Leoch itself.

Seeing as it was my first "night out" and that apparently Claire had been using me as an excuse to skip the other dinners, Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons was determined to make us both presentable for the festivities. Beginning straight after lunch, the plump old woman had serving maids bring down two large tubs made out of wood, almost resembling decapitated wine barrels. After a few buckets of water were warmed by the fire and poured into the two containers, Claire and I were stripped in a flurry of hands and settled into the steaming baths, to be scrubbed and lathered, hair pulled and scalps massaged in what felt like an eighteenth century spa day. At one point through the proceedings when a particularly enthusiastic serving maid pulled a large chuck of my hair, I opened my eyes and grimaced towards Claire, only to be met by an equally pained expression that made me shake with restrained laughter.

After being "wooled" dry, rubbed with scented oils and having my hair brushed out, Claire and I were left to dress ourselves, newly tailored gowns laid over the back of two chairs waiting for us. Once the last serving made left, we both let out an exasperated breath,

"She's like a tornado!" I said with a huff, as I shook out my brand new, emerald green dress.

"Yes, well when you run a castle full of Scotsmen, I expect you have to be." she said with a laugh as she slid into her deep blue velvet gown. I turned back to mine and looked down in dismay, a corset was not something I was looking forward to. With a little laugh, Claire took the garment laces from behind and began lacing me up, taking care not to go too tight in fear that it would chaff my back. Once that was completed she help my slide the cool velvet and wool over my head, and then she laced up the back of that. Leaving me to look down at my self in awe. I felt like a princess, a Scots princess that is. The green of the dress brought out the pink tones in my skin beautifully, framing my body to accentuate the little curves that I had naturally and the fake ones given to me by the voluminous skirt. My feet poked out of the bottom of the dress, and with help from Claire, I slid my feet into brand new leather slippers, stiff, but luckily the right size.

With a little twirl, I turned to Claire. She looked gorgeous in her blue dress, which made her skin look like flawless alabaster. Her hair was pinned up in a coiled mess of curls, which sprang out of their confinement in some places; giving her an air of perfectly casual elegance. Without me having to voice my inquiry, she reached behind herself and grabbed a wooden comb and a strip of black ribbon, sat me down on the chair and began to go to work. Within a few minutes filled with painful hair tugging and watering eyes, she had braided my hair into an intricate rope that fell right below my shoulder blades and ended in a bow of black silk. With a final look at both of our outfits, she declared us fit for celebratory activates and we were off, traversing the stairs in minutes without my mangled back to slow us down. Hurrying through the corridors, past the kitchens filled to the brim with servants on high alert, and up the stairs towards the great hall. Passing Scotsmen and women of all types, sizes, and levels of intoxication. And finally, panting and out of breath, we squeezed into the back doorway of the hall, coming in next to the high table, which sat the Laird, Colum Mackenzie, his brother Dougal, wife Leticia, and son Hamish. All of this was whispered to me by a breathless Claire as we made our way down the side of the hall to find an open bench, halfway to the back. Squeezing past a particularly round, older man, and his large arsed wife, we were finally seated, facing the high table, and waiting for the ceremony to begin.

All the while Claire could not keep her eyes on one place for long, searching, whether she knew it or not, for the spark that would eventually catch her ablaze.


	6. Chapter 6

I saw him before she did.

His body was wrapped in a deep velvet frock, contrasting his fiery hair, accentuating the blaze. He was a hulking mass of man, towering over the crowd.

A lion amongst a herd of sheep.

And he had seen his lioness.

I glanced to Claire, her eyes were round and her cheeks flushed. She watched his every step as he neared our bench, a smile growing with his every motion, until it was a fully-fledged grin. I hid my smile, feigning need for the bathroom as I abandoned ship.

This love boat was taking off.

I wove my way through the crowd, mentally retracing my steps back to where Claire had pointed out the bathrooms. Squeezing past scots of all shapes, sizes, and kilt colors. One thing I missed about the 21st century was certainly the hygiene; the smothering scent of alcohol, sweat, and musk filled the air. Climbing down my throat and making my eyes water.

Fresh air. That's what I needed, far more than a bathroom at this point.

I set off in the direction of the stables, stopped halfway, rethought, and turned for the gardens. If for some reason Claire and Jamie decided to sail the love boat out of the great hall, the stables might be one of their destinations. Better be safe than sorry.

The gardens were just around the corner of the stables, a turret of the castle separated them from sight, but if one listened carefully, the sounds of horses could be heard as if they were carried on the wind.

The gardens were quiet when I walked out, the moon was out, full and white. Glistening and reflecting off the puddles scattered across the ground. The water-moons wobbled as I walked by, vibrating like the water cup in Jurassic Park.

I felt very ethereal as I walked amongst the overgrowth, my gown trailing along the ground, the moon turning my skin a pearly white. I was Artemis, the moon incarnate.

I breathed in the fresh mountain air, its chilly fingers clawing down my throat and sinus'; into my brain until I was fully awake. It was then that my ears perked up, the sound of boots coming nearer began to overshadow the faint neighing of horses in the background. My heart seized as I looked back to the door, a few steps, whoever it was would see me but I would be inside the castle before they could catch me.

I began hurrying. Women's rights were close to nothing in this era, respect of women ran along the same lines. Inside, I needed to be inside.

I heard the stranger splash through a puddle just as my feet crossed the threshold; to Claire I must go, and so I did.

Through the halls I went, retracing my steps until I was squeezing past the scots of Clan Mackenzie, back to Claire's bench, that was now devoid of Jamie. Her scanning eyes met mine as I sat down beside her,

"Oh there you are! Did you get lost on the way to the privies?" she asked in a whisper as the proceedings began up front.

"No," I said, "merely wandering the halls to give Jamie some time with you." I said this with a cheeky smile and turned to watch the ceremony. Claire huffed a laugh, blushed, and swatted my shoulder. I grinned.

In hushed tones throughout the event, Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons explain what was taking place and the meaning behind the ceremony. She had found us and squeezed onto our bench soon after I had returned.

It was a swearing-in of sorts. The men of Clan Mackenzie were giving their allegiance to Colum and Dougal, drinking the castle's wine and reciting a pledge. It was a ceremony of great meaning, if you did not say the oath, you were pretty much dead meat from what I understood.

I didn't realize that I would have a demonstration of such an event.

As the last few men were sworn into the clan, men of all ages and sizes, a great red brute was thrust forward into the great hall. Held back by men I had seen before but did not remember their names, Jamie was marched straight to the feet of Colum, placed in a spotlight that I realized he had no intention of getting caught in the first place.

I hid my eyes as the awkwardly stiff tension in the room reached an all-out high, Claire gasped and squeezed my hand as Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons explained what was happening.

Jamie was an idiot, that was what was happening.

Due to his undying love for the woman at my side, it seemed like the Scottish giant was caught loitering around the castle, not hiding where he should have been if he had wanted to avoid this event. Some of his peers, who seemed to have been highly inebriated, thought to take it upon themselves to escort him back to where he should have been. The very place he had wanted to avoid.

A conversation between Colum and Jamie began, tense and muffled. Even Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons could discern nothing to translate to us.

Dark stares were exchanged throughout the crowd, daggers were grasped, and throats cleared. Colum raised his hand as Jamie stopped talking, beckoning the room to be quiet. Jamie then took the bowl of alcohol and drained it, not sharing with Colum, not even bowing.

An anxiety, adrenaline filled moment passed, silent as the dead, and then,

Colum clasped Jamie's shoulders and smiled.

It was like a balloon had popped.

The hall erupted in cheers as the last clan member swore into the Clan Mackenzie. Clothing was thrown, glasses clinked and yells were exchanged.

My head felt stuffed with cotton as my senses were over stimulated with all the celebration surrounding me.

Claire looked for Jamie but he had been swept away by his fellow warriors, off to get drunk I assumed. I looked at Claire, asking with my eyes whether we would stay or retire to our rooms for the night. But before she could answer me, I was interrupted by a cough and "excuse me".

I turned around in surprise, nobody acknowledged me in the castle besides my own little family, they were all still wary about my presence.

Before me stood a man, new to manhood, but no longer a boy. His hair was a dark tangle of curls, swept carelessly away from his face, and gathering at the nape of his neck in a thong of leather. His face was tanned, and pleasing to look at, a small white scare decorated the corner of his eye and another, longer one graced his bottom lip and part of his chin. I blinked at his hulking form, tall yet lanky, at least a head over my own. My eyes met his; deep, warm and chocolate brown. They weren't a deep blue and yet I felt as if they went on forever, and for the first time in my life, I felt that cliché statement for myself, I got "lost in his eyes".

His scared and ruddy hand was outstretched and within it was a black silk ribbon. I looked at it, lost.

"It fell from your hair as you exited the garden," he said, his voice was deep and rumbled out of his chest like a bear's growl, "I figured you'd want it back".

I automatically smiled and said thank you, auto pilot taking over as my mind stumbled over his smooth voice and intriguing features.

He nodded and faded away back into the crowd and my mind immediately began criticizing how I handled the situation. Stupid, that's how I handled it, awkwardly stupid.


	7. Chapter 7

The next few days went by in a blur, and as much as I wanted it not to be true, I was acting like a lovesick puppy. This boy, this man whom I had seen once, for not even a full minute had manage to weasel his way into my mind. Wrapping around my thoughts like an invasive weed, blocking out any logical sense and replacing it will a fools hope.

I was a perfect idiot. A cliché. The very people I had deemed as pathetic in school were suddenly me. A hypocrite if there ever was one.

Claire had noticed my doe-eyed expressions and dreamy demeanor; anytime she so much as looked in my direction her face was the picture of amusement and laughter. I knew she meant it to be harmless but it struck a chord within me, and at once I was determined to squash these pathetic girly feelings from my mind. I was in 18th century Scotland, and there was no way in hell I was going to have any weaknesses. I had to be strong to survive in this culture, I had no time for romance, I had to figure out my purpose in this strange land first, which I was no closer to discovering since I landed here more than a month and a half ago.

Life at Castle Leoch had smoothed out however. The castle and its tenants had begun to accept my presence as inevitable and no longer regarded me with accusatory glances and glares. Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons was as always a mother to me, doting and clucking around like a mother hen to the whole castle. Claire remained my closest confidant, my sister in this mysterious world. I was always by her side, helping her harvest herbs or make poultices, becoming quite experienced in the healing arts along the way. The only time I was not by her side was when one of us took a trip to the bathroom (which made one miss the luxuries of plumbing acutely) or Jamie was about. When he came near I always made sure to give him a welcoming smile and then suddenly realize I had somewhere else to be, assuring Claire that I could handle the rest of the day's work alone.

Jamie and Claire were, well, they were Jamie and Claire. Their story was beautiful and blooming. Still timid and shy, they would sit together in Claire's garden talking, or visit Jamie's horses in the stables, going over their names and breeds, feeding them bits of carrots along the way.

It was on one of these days, when I had snuck away from Claire and Jamie that I came upon a most curious room. I was wandering the lower levels, a floor above Claire and I's basement, but below the kitchens and bedrooms. It was tucked behind the corner of a stone wall, looking like its addition was a second thought to the builder and not preplanned with the rest of the rooms. The door was cracked open, a heavy thing of light wood, with chips and cracks spider webbing the surface. It was dry against my fingertips as I pushed it open, lightly creaking but not enough to carry beyond my own ears. The room was lit by an arched window directly across from me, sunlight filtered in through the dusty glass in streaks; lighting up the swirling dust motes within. The furniture looked just as ignored as the window, left and forgotten to collect the floating particles from the air. Against one of the walls was an intimidating looking cabinet, reminding me of the wardrobe to Narnia; made of a deep, dark colored wood. I glanced behind myself to insure discretion and then quickly and quietly slipped into the room, easing the door to a cracked position before crossing to analyze the cabinet. My leather slippers left light footprints in the thick coat of dust, revealing the stone floor beneath; I would have to make sure to smear them away before I left, to hide my presence. Upon reaching the cabinet, I worked my way from the bottom up, pulling open each drawer as quietly as I could, only to be rewarded with clouds of choking dust and bits of yellowed parchment, apparently used as mouse nests since being discarded by its previous owner.

Upon reaching the two highest doors however, a chill spread across my arms and up to my neck, something was waiting for me beyond these thin panels of wood, I could feel it. It was a curious feeling, like a magnet was pulling both my body and my brain to whatever was in the cabinet, beckoning me forward. In preparation I took a step back and reached out my hands to grasp the metal handles, strangely warmed by the sun that illuminated them. I pulled and the doors stuck, sealed with age and disuse; again I pulled, harder this time and was rewarded with a pop as they yanked open. I stepped back in preparation for something flying out, and also because the sudden release threw off my balance.

Nothing flew out however. For there was nothing in the cabinet, except, as I saw when I drew near, a rock in the back left corner. I neared even further and was pleasantly surprised to see that the rock was no rock at all, it was a dust encrusted crystal. Irregular and about the size of a walnut, the crystal sat amongst a sea of gray. I reached out and thought twice before touching the crystal with my bare hands, instead I reached and with the edge of my apron I picked up the stone, polishing it off in the process. Cradling it within the canvas of my outfit, I was amazed to see that the crystal was a deep purple. Shot through with veins of white and lavender. It reminded me of amethyst, but something about it was different, it was a stone I had never seen before.

Turning the stone over in my apron, I could see little scratches covering it's surface, like little hands had clawed at it, maybe a mouse had once used it as a plaything. The crystal seemed harmless enough, just a forgotten trinket left by a previous owner. Before I could chicken out, I transferred the crystal to my left hand, still covered in canvas, and reached out to touch the glistening surface with my right. A closer look was all I wanted.

But that closer look never happened. The second my skin made contact with the mineral a dark curtain was dropped over my eyes. My senses shut down, there was no sound, smell, light, or air, just darkness. The sensation was like nothing I had ever felt before, I imagine it is what a black hole feels like in space; terrifying emptiness. As a choking panic began to rise up in my chest, the curtain was whisked away and I was looking out from stranger eyes, seeing unfamiliar sights and listening to unfamiliar sounds.

"_Noises all around, surrounding my tent. Clamoring for my attention, approval, and acknowledgment. Accents carried on the wind and lost in a hum of other tongues. My face remains impassive, cold even. Waiting. Waiting for their silence. My handmaiden calmly tucks the last strand of my hair into its elaborate design. Half up, half down; my decision. I look in the silver and see a wild woman looking back. Brown hair, almost blond falls around my shoulders, little braids littered throughout. A wild, yet __tamed__ woman, tamed by herself and no man. The top is in an intricate bun, a lovely opposite to the free locks below. I hold out my hand, the servant places two small jars within. In one is rouge, made from the local berries in a shade of my choosing. Carefully applied to the lips, they become fuller. To the cheeks, a windswept look ensues. Next comes the jar filled with 'khol'. A mixture made from burnt cork, khol hasn't yet been introduced to Scotland. Carefully applied to the eye as a liner, it accentuates and enhances. Finally the finishing touch._

_I hold out my hand again, this time what is laid there is hefty, cold and hard. _

_A crown."_


	8. Chapter 8

I came to, my check plastered against the rough stone floor, warmed from my own body. The sandy grit of dust scratched against my skin, the bright sun that had previously shown through the murky window was now a dying glow, barely enough to illuminate the room. I turned my head slowly, my neck stiff and achy as my body moved positions. The cabinet in the back of the room now seemed like a massive, looming black shape, casting crawling shadows on the old floor. I sat up carefully, suppressing the chill that ran across my body as the drafty room's breeze hit my face. The crystal was still grasped tightly in my hand, the edges dug deeply into my palm, revealing little indentations as I released the stone. It sat now, dull, lifeless and unassuming, no longer the beacon of mystery it was before.

At once I considered where to put it, the option of simply putting it back in the cabinet for anyone to stumble across felt too... wrong. Almost like an invasion of privacy, the crystal had spoken to _me_, chosen _me. _We were tied somehow, since our connection; and therefore, I justified to myself, it now belonged to me. "No stone left behind", I thought smugly.

I stood up in a whirling cloud of dust, the little mites lit up as they lazily spun like wandering planets in the fading daylight. Carefully, I slipped the precious stone into my apron pocket, and grimaced as a vision of Gollum flashed across my mind, "precious"; no way I'd let a rock be the downfall of my sanity.

I dusted off my clothing quickly and straightened my hair. Distantly the sound of milling people reached my ears, clanging of pots and the pattering of many feet as the castle began to prepare for dinner. Claire would be wondering where I was, we always got ready together for the evening meal.

I gave the room one last scan before patting down my now heavy pocket and opening up the door. I looked out, and finding the coast clear, slipped out from the mystery room and headed back to the physician's ward. After a few minutes of getting lost twice, and crossing paths with a particularly touchy drunk old man, I found myself in a hallway that I recognized.

My feet scraped against the stone floor, the sound of scuffing leather filled the air as I ran back to my room. Already in my head, I was rehearsing my explanation to Claire as to where I had been, yet as I reached the stairwell, about to descend, I heard something echo up from below. Slowly and quietly, I took a few steps down, making sure not to step into the pool of light, cast by the wall's lantern. I stopped on the seventh stair up, right before the turn that would expose my presence to the room.

I took a breath and listened.

And immediately regretted it.

Claire certainly was not alone, but she was also not in a decent state I imagined, at least not going off the sounds that both she and Jamie were making.

I panicked all at once, horrified at the scene I had stumbled upon, and turned in a rush to race back up the stairs. But alas, making a quiet and non-embarrassing escape was not in the cards. In an instant, I collided with a warm body headed in the opposite direction.

I hate to admit my cliché response, but I shrieked. Loudly, as I felt my equilibrium shift backwards. The warm body seized up and made a deep exclamation of surprise, followed closely by a scream and yell from down within the ward. All the while my balance was tipping down the stairs and I had no way to right myself besides grabbing wildly for anything to stable. Which I did.

To be specific, I grabbed the warm human body.

If I haven't mentioned it before, my luck is nonexistent. A fact clearly displayed when my handhold lost balance himself and decided to follow my descent as I roughly fell down the stairs. Tumbling together, we landed, sprawled in a tangled mass of arms and legs upon the hard floor; in the lantern's light and regrettably in view of two very indecent individuals in a position that I sorely wish I could burn from my brain. My face flushed as I turned to my tumbling partner. Looking back at me was a very disheveled, equally embarrassed boy. Specifically the one who returned my ribbon to me at the clan gathering not two weeks beforehand. Lucky for me, his current state very much humanized him and I was not the blubbering tongue-tied buffoon in his presence that I was at the dinner previously.

His eyes flashed to the couple behind me and in an instant he was on his feet, grabbing my hand and yanking me up the stairs, almost pulling my arm straight out of the socket. Not that I would have minded at that point, anything to escape the situation that we had fallen into, both literally and figuratively. As we ran past the lanterns and into the dusky hallway, the calls of Claire and shouts of Jamie were left answerless in our wake. Up we ran, through twisting hallways and corridors, doubling back and taking wild turns until we were sure that there was no chance of being found by the other two. Once we found a hallway, tucked back and away on the other side of the castle, clear from the physician's ward and any that might wander out of it, we stopped. Our faces a mix of red and pink from more than just the running.

"I dunno abou' Claire bu' I think we should steer clear o' Jamie for a bit", He said in a huff, his face slowly returning to the ruddy tan it was before. I nodded my head, my chest heaving as I caught my breath.

"I think I'll skip dinner" I said in response, unwilling to face Claire or Jamie after our recent events. He laughed and nodded his head,

"Aye, tha' seems like the best idea".


	9. Chapter 9

I had never been good with boys when I was in school, never had a relationship or been close friends with any of them. My friends cycled through guys like shoes, old ones were tossed and new ones sought after until they themselves were old news too.

Not me. I just wasn't noticeable. Although it seems rare in current day society, I was happy with what I looked like. My body was good, I hadn't always liked it but once you realize that your stuck with it for life, you begin to let it grow on you. At least I did. My face wasn't too bad either, I was no ethereal beauty, or sparkling homecoming queen, but I wasn't an ogre. I had a strong chin, and long nose, my eyes were pool-like, with those squiggly little ripple reflections. I did suffer from bitchy resting face, and usually that was what I blamed my lacking love life on. I told myself that boys were too timid and shallow to be willing to see if the mean-looking girl was actually nice underneath her cold façade. I told myself that once college began, the _men_ there would be more mature, more appreciative of a real woman. A woman with flaws and imperfections, not a girl as perfect and unoriginal as a doll.

But then I got sucked into a rock and sent back a few millennium.

So who knows if my hypothesis of college boys was right, their all Scottish warriors here.

But I'm not so sure that's such a bad thing.

A blue eyed, strong jawed, scarred boy stood before me. The savior of my ribbon and now my dignity. We stood together at the foot of a massive tapestry, a picture of a bloody and glorious hunt painted in thread. As we sat there in the flickering light of the candles mounted on the wall, something occurred to me.

"Your name", and then realizing that that was neither a complete sentence nor a question, I blushed and tried again.

"What's your name?" He smiled at my faux pas, which only made my heart beat faster and face blush redder.

"Ye can call me Scot, or Scottie, thas' what the castle calls me a' least". The response I had at the ready died in my throat.

"You're a scot named Scot?" I asked incredulously. He grimaced and the scar next to his lip crinkled as his mouth formed a delicate pout.

"My da was a' Irishman and his marriage to my ma was no', let's say 'ideal'. My grandda, when he heard o' my birth, said tha' without a Scottish da, I myself was no' a scot. My ma dinna take kindly ta' that and named me Scotland, in her words; 'if he canna be Scottish, he'll be Scotland instead'."

I smiled and bit down on a laugh, his mother sounded spectacular. He watched my expression and let out a held breath,

"Aye, you can laugh"

"No no!" I said, afraid he'd think I was teasing, "It's just," I tried to come up with relevant time-appropriate term, "Your mother sounds like such a bad ass", I finished with a breathy laugh. His eyes widened and I realized that there was a serious misunderstanding about to take place, and I was going to need to explain. Fast.

"Where I'm from 'bad ass' means tough, fearless and strong. Not.." he nodded his head, telling me to go on,

"Not a bad butt", I cringed as the words left my mouth, my lack of experience with boys was clearly showing, going off of my tact with conversation alone. His eyes sparkled and he put his head back, letting out not a deep, booming chortle as one might think, but a silly little giggle. The sound a young boy would make at a goofy little joke from a peer. My face lit up and it took everything in me not to release the smile that threatened to split my face.

"Aye" he said as his giggle faded away, "Thas' it then, I'll have ta' tell her tha' one, she'd get a good laugh outta tha'." I gave him a controlled peek at the grin I was fighting away, just as my stomach growled.

"Excuse my obnoxious friend here", I said as I pointed to my stomach, because clearly the way to woo a guy is to draw attention to your loud bodily sounds, "But do you think the kitchen would mind terribly if a few items went missing?"

"I have a better idea" he said in response, motioning for me to follow as he set off down the corridor. We retraced our steps back to the kitchen within minutes, taking care to skirt the main entrance to the dining hall. But instead of going to where the food was made, Scot had a different idea; we set up camp outside one of the servant entrances into the Great Hall. He motioned for me to stand up straight with my hands settled stiffly behind my back, like the help did when serving the upper echelon. Together we stood firmly against the wall, more like statues than human beings. Before long a young man came bustling down from the kitchens in a tizzy, a platter in his hand, oblivious to our presence until he was right on top of us.

"Ho' there brother!" Scot said, a charming smile on his face as he took a step forward, "Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons be tellin' us ta' help out with tha' serving tonight, may we take tha' heavy load from yer' weary hands?" The man looked skeptically between myself and his savior, weighing the consequences, I assumed. Clearly they were not anything to worry over, or Scot was just a better liar than I realized because the man surrendered the tray instantly; into the victorious hands waiting before him.

"See tha' the Laird is served first, an' work yer way out from there," the young server said with an exhausted high pitched huff. Scot nodded eagerly, back as straight as a rod and looking comical. With one last withering glance in our direction, the man was headed back to the kitchen in a flurry of panicked activity. Scot looked down and examined the silver dish in his hands, the fire from the wall mounted torches reflected off the shiny surface distractingly,

"How do assorted meats sound?" He said, I smiled in response and replied,

"I have the perfect dining place in mind, and it comes with a bonus meal too".

Together we made our way to the gardens, the moon was barely a sliver of a crescent tonight, but it was bright enough to give off a gentle light to illuminate our path. A warm, rolling breeze played with our hair and ran lightly across my skin. Luckily the ground was dry; firm, hard-packed and dusty from the traffic of feet. Scot found a mossy portion of ground against the castle wall; his long legs bent with the grace of a warrior as he folded himself into a sitting position. Setting the platter on his lap, he patted the springy greenery with his hand and said,

"Take a seat". I shook my head and resumed my search through the garden, letting the night air swallow the rapid beats of my heart and hide the flushing mess that was my face.

"I have to get our bonus first!" I said, once I was confident that my voice would come out steadily. He watched my movements curiously whilst avidly digging into the assortment of meats. After a few minutes of no success, in which I questioned my botany skills, I recognized a familiar green tuft poking out of a freshly tilled mound of Earth. Taking care not to trample the other plants around me, I knelt down and dug out the dirt around my buried treasure. With only a few swift tugs, I had uncovered four, rather large, brown carrots; roughly the length of my palm.

From there I brought the veggies to the corner of the courtyard, where an ancient and weathered stone well sat. It's bricks were mossy and worn, and the wooden bucket had easily seen at least twenty years of frequent use. As rare as it is, luck was with me at that moment, as someone had used the well earlier and left a few inches of fresh water at the bottom of the bucket. Therefore I wouldn't have to embarrass myself by trying to figure out how a well worked and if I even had the strength to operate it.

With my nails, I made sure to scrap away the majority of the dirt and grime that coated the earthy carrots, washing the evidence away in the bucket's puddle. Once the carrots were a glistening shade of bright orange, I walked back to Scot's place against the wall, all the while his skeptical eyes tracked the suspicious objects in my hands.

"Ye know tha' their supposed ta' be cooked right?" His little, white mouth scar puckered again as his lips folded into a grimace. Just as I lifted one of the offending vegetables to my mouth and took a large, cracking bite.

"A lie," I said as I swallowed, "they're just as good raw as they are cooked", I took another bite, "Some would say better even." I finished. He hesitantly took one of the orange monsters from my fingers, flicked off a remnant of dirt and raised it to his mouth,

"If I die from this, I'm comin' back ta' haunt you first".

Although he might have been a highland warrior trained and honed to battle any enemy that crossed his path, Scot's bravery when it came to food was ultimately dismal. He bit delicately into the cone shaped vegetable, making a small indentation; something resembling a mouse nibble. He chewed slowly, his face a mask of apprehension as he waited for the expected toxins to kick in. Watching carefully, I exposed a smile as his face formed a disappointed expression and he said,

"Aye, it seems safe enough," he handed the rest of the carrot back to me, "I prefer em' in their rightful form however" he added, before his attention was relocated to the mountain of meats still at home upon his lap. I finished off his discarded carrot and started on the third, the familiar taste calling up images of home. Before I could stop myself I said,

"If you think that's decent, you should taste it with some Ranch." Scot paused with a roll of ham on track towards his mouth.

"Ranch?" he said, "Either I'm a bit loose in the head or there's another thing called ranch besides a' place ta' store livestock?" He finished questionably. Mentally I was thwacking my head, I would need to be more careful of my words from here on out. Too many slip ups and I'd be burned as a witch, or something along those lines.

"Where I'm from, Ranch is the name of a tasty sauce, usually eaten with raw vegetables like these carrots," I gestured to the object in my hand before taking another snapping bite.

"Ahh," He nodded, "I see now. Maybe ye' can make me some o' this Ranch one day, I'm sure Mrs. Fitz-Gibbon has the necessary ingredients." He nodded again and looked off into the distance, lost in his thoughts. I laughed in my head, unless Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons had some high fructose corn syrup in that pantry, we might be out of luck.

Together we sat in a comfortable silence, him munching away at his meats, me snapping and cracking my way through the carrots. The moon played peek-a-boo with the clouds, casting her light upon us before the fog threw a blanket of darkness across the garden. The wind tickled my ears and whistled through the crops; teasing their leaves to and fro in a timeless dance.

"Forgive me for askin'," Scot said quietly, so much so that I had to turn my head to hear him, "But where exactly are ye' from?" he finished. His eyes scanning across the yard to latch on to mine. I knew this was coming. He hadn't asked me earlier, despite our full conversation in which my accent had been on display. However he wasn't oblivious to my circumstances either, I would bet my right arm that he had heard of my mysterious appearance at the castle and the secret behind my nationality.

And suddenly before me was a forked path. How much of the truth should this stranger be privy to? Should I weave up a fantastical lie? A story of a daring capture and struggle? Maybe throw in a few pirates for dramatic appeal?

Or should I tell the truth. Which would amazingly be less believable than a story involving pirates and a transcontinental journey at this point.

Time travel, as pop culture taught us, was never an easy sell.


	10. Chapter 10

My heart would pound. The feelings coursing through my body going from butterflies to full on dragons in the span of seconds. No longer were they just some 'cute' nerves. It was now a full on anxiety attack. As if I developed some magical hypersensitive powers; I used to swear I could feel the adrenaline being released and begin to course through my already overworked veins. Pure icy cold energy was being shot through me and I had no way to stop it, no way to dam up the anxiety inducing hormone.

My breathing would also began to pick up and as I laid a shaking hand on my chest I would feel my heart begin to speed up as well.

That is why I despised first dates. Why I prefer casual and spontaneous get togethers, ones so surprising that my body has no way to psych itself out. I was a classic over thinker and this was just another page in a book titled 'Anxiety Attacks Induced by the Dreadful Social Encounters of a Teenage Girl".

Breathing exercises, meditation, journal writing, even art. None of it had even begun to give me any glimpse of control over my body and it's reactions. It had gotten to a point so debilitating that I resigned myself to the fact that I would die alone and single. I could not imagine a time in my life where the anxiety would be trumped by love, even if it was true.

;

That is, until I realized that not caring. Not giving a shit about anyones option but my own was the key. I learned to give myself little pep talks before stress inducing social encounters, pep talks that reminded myself that I was happy, and in no need of anything. If a guy wanted to take me out on a date, I would remind myself that I owed him nothing, that I would not and should not feel obligated in anyway to make myself into anything other than myself. If it wasn't going well, I shouldn't feel the need to keep responding to his texts and advances. If he was mean or rude or disrespectful I would not feel swayed by popular opinion to continue to see him.

And strongly enough, that small change in my attitude transformed my perspective. Sure anxiety was still something I had to live with, and sometimes even a sizable anxiety attack or two reared it's ugly head. Yet the fear that had plagued me everyday, living beneath the surface of my skin to taint every moment of my existence was gone. The pressure to live up to what society expected, what my friends and peers expected had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt at last like someone had striken off chains I had not known restrained me. I was now living the life _I wanted _to live….

…Up until the whole rock-time-travel incidence occurred of course. Now I'm convinced that I'm living the life that some really bored, deviant and possible sadistic higher being wants me to live.

But hey, at least I don't give a shit.

* * *

I turned away from him as I gathered my thoughts. Trying to grasp the threads of coherent-ness that seemed to escape me.

He sat quietly, choosing to look at the moon instead of bestowing the pressure of his gaze upon my being.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear but I honestly cannot tell you my past" I said in a whisper, "I'm not a criminal, simply a girl who is a little farther away from home than she's used to". I smiled at that last bit, appreciating the darkness for hiding the flash of my teeth at my understatement.

"Aye." he let out a breath, "I suppose I havna' choice but ta' accept tha'… I also respect ya' if I'm ta' be verra honest" he finished with a swipe of his hands on his kilt and stood up in a rustle of wool and leather. He turned and reached out a hand to me, and although it was a simple offer to help stand I felt in that moment that it meant so much more.

It was an offer to immerse myself even further in this adventurous life. To take a step I had never taken before and not only put my body and mind at risk, but my heart as well.

* * *

Back home I had gone on some dates, not seconds, usually finding a way to end contact with the boys. I had even participated in some party activity and had a few drunken kisses. My romantic life had been short and uneventful but I had come to the almost horrifying realization that I didn't think I would ever be able to commit to an individual, even with my new "don't give a shit"-lease on life. Out of those few encounters I had had, I hated the dates, hated the flare-ups of anxiety and social stress they gave me. The drunken and sloppy kisses that meant nothing were what I was drawn to, I enjoyed the casual encounters, the promise of thoughtlessly fun hook-up. I was independent, maybe too much so. I didn't have any desire to compromise my lifestyle, to share a sock drawer or DVR. I wanted decisions to be based solely on me, as selfish as it sounds. And so I got this idea in my head that maybe I would never settle down, never be able to open up to another human being that personally. All flash and no substance.

Yet here I was. Reaching for the hand of a kilt clad scot whose culture did not have a dating scene, but more of an arranged marriage/babies as soon as possible scene; a truly nauseating thought if I was being honest.

A part of me grasped eagerly at the hand that was surely attached to an attractive body and even lovelier face.

The other and probably more reliable part of my mind was screaming eternally at the death warrant I was signing for my shortly lived life.

We walked quietly back inside the castle, the distant sounds of revelry still echoed through the halls, drunken clansmen blanketed the stone floors, slumped here and there as if a sleeping spell had been cast upon all of them. Picking our way past them carefully before Scot left me at the top of the physician ward stairs. Reaching a hand up to tuck away an errant strand of hair and tugging on my ribbon before turning back for the main hall, a smile gracing his gentle face and leaking on to mine as I watched his strong back disappear around the corner; his kilt whipping against the stone as it followed.

I didn't want to overthink anything, not like I had done in the past; and so I buried the outdoor dinner we spent together in my head. Hiding it under distractions, withholding it's innocence and joy from the prying fingers in my mind who were begging to see it, to tear it apart with 'what-if's and 'maybe's.

Instead I would go to my cot, dress for bed and look forward to another day. But of course because I wanted that to happen, it was not meant to be.

As I made my way to the top of the stairs and took my first step down many things happened at once. I heard the soft tap of my shoe on the stone paired with a moan from the depths. I froze, not believing what I knew must be happening not 15 feet below where I stood.

But there it was again, this time joined with the rattles of bottles shaking, an image I did not under any circumstances want in my head. As I made to turn back the ties of my dress were yanked from behind and I stumbled back out of the staircase and into the torch light from the hallway. I whipped around immediately, fearing the unwanted advances of a drunken clansmen, only to find the kind face of Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons.

"Deary ye willna be sleepin' down there ta'night" she said with a slap to her hip, ushering me to follow her down the hall. Her small, plump form waddling down the stony walkway.

"If you could possible tell me where a blanket might be I can sleep in the kitchen for tonight" I said, not wanting to trouble her anymore, as I followed like a lost little duckling.

"Aye tha' willna work seein' tha' those drunk bastards will be in an' out o' there all night!" Again she slapped her hip, this time in annoyance at the intoxicated men trespassing in her domestic territory. "I've got a room made up for ye', it's about time ye' get a bed of yer own". We took a left and ended up outside a wooden door, in a hallway that seemed filled with them; the sleeping quarters then.

The bustling older woman unlatched the door and held it open, bidding me to go in, "This will be yer permanent quarters from now on," she gestured to the bed, "I think it's safe for me to assume that Claire willna be returning to the ward to sleep either so theres no need for ye to be alone." Before I could respond with my agreement and thanks she had left in a swirl of skirts and lavender, letting the door close and latch behind her.

I made sure that in addition to being latched it was also locked before examining my new residence. A large and almost medieval looking four poster bed sat straight in front of me, draped in velvets of deeps reds and greens. To my left was a crackling fire in a grate that could fit me if I bent my head only slightly, seated in front was a wooden chair and table; a vase with wildflowers perched upon it. On my right was a desk and chair, simple and beautifully constructed from a dark wood, stained with use. The floor was decorated with a woven rug, depicting the plants and wildlife of the Scottish Highlands; and peeking out from underneath the bed I could see the metallic rim of a chamber pot. I tried to suppress it but I definitely cringed when I saw that.

All together the room was more than enough and greatly appreciated after sleeping on a lumpy cot for weeks.

I stripped down to my shift, washing my face with the water pitcher and laid my lovely dress and slippers on the chair by the smoldering fire. Before the chill night air could wrap me in it's embrace I climbed under the sea of comforters, quilts and blankets and immersed myself in a cocoon of warmth.

Closing my eyes I made sure to avoid thinking of the night I had spent with Scot and instead found myself smiling as I recalled the noises I had heard on my initial way to bed.

I'd have to ask Claire about them in the morning.


End file.
